On a sunny afternoon near the end of April, I met with the student and aspiring writer Beatrice Wedd. We sat across from each other in a small classroom at Bard College — one with a window that opened sideways and through which birds were chirping — and she revealed herself to have a divided sense of purpose.
“There are pros and cons to both fields,” she said, eyebrows furrowed and chin in her hands. I’d asked whether she’d pick journalism or publishing, if given the green light for both. “But in terms of stress levels, I’m leaning towards publication right now … or teaching. I think I need to do them before I’ll really know.” and this was the impression I had after speaking with her for several weeks; Wedd was cautious. She needed to do things in order to know.
I asked Wedd what her style of writing was. Even though I’d read some of it before meeting her, I wanted her to characterize it herself.
“I write different types of stories,” she replied, “psychological cop dramas; a science fiction story about a person turning into a plant; one about a trauma victim who thinks she’s in the 1700’s; many different ideas. I definitely don’t feel constrained to a certain genre. I don’t think I can only write about romance because I’m a girl, or anything like that. But maybe I would’ve written more about human rights and politics if I’d paid attention to it freshman year and during high school. It’s hard to say.”
We’d been talking about her work and about what influenced it. “My grandfather’s kind of silly. He used say things like: ‘Girls shouldn’t be in politics.’ I know he was joking, but that was frustrating to me, and it stuck with me longer than it should have.”
She talked about her mother as well.
“I remember asking my mom for college guidance and she said, ‘Do something in the arts because that’s what we all do, and that’s what you’re best at.’ That always felt like my only option as a teen. Not necessarily in a bad way because it is what I love doing. But once I came to college and took human rights, sociology, and political science classes I started wondering whether I should’ve thought of different schools or applied myself to different subjects in high school. It’s hard to say how different my life would’ve been.
Looking back I feel more held back now than I did at the time.”
During our months together, Wedd struggled with this kind of thing — with doubt. It seemed to be her greatest fear and the obstacle that restrained her the most. I asked what her least favorite thing was and she said, “Not knowing something, doubt in general, the feeling that I did something wrong without knowing what it was. It’s an abstract idea but that’s that.”
This connected neatly with her worries about how different her writing style, and even her life, would have been had she travelled down a different path.
But in spite of her insecurities over who she would have been or what her style would have looked like, the reception to her work has largely been positive. Upon request, she emailed over written evaluations from professors in her earlier years at Bard College. Teju Cole, winner of the PEN/Hemingway Award for his novel Open City, said, regarding her work,
“Your stories were original, challenging, and clearly came from a unique intelligence […] Continue to read a lot, write a lot, and edit a lot. I think you’re going to go on to great things.” — Teju Cole
And Porochista Khakpour, an acclaimed writer, columnist, and author of Sons & other Flammable Objects, was also complimentary.
“Beatrice was one of the strongest students I had this term — “ her evaluation read, “[If writing class were graded] her grade would have been a solid A, which I rarely give […]
In every class, she was a leader in discussion — her comments were always honest and tough, but delivered with sensitivity and compassion.
In that way, I think many looked to her to improve their work; her investment in reading the work of her peers certainly inspired many (I recall several students bringing her up to me in my office hours because of this).”
— Porochista Khakpour
And Khakpour was right: Wedd’s work is ambitious. Her short story, We Exhale, opens with,
“My arms are heavy with the feeling of being foreign. I roll over onto my side and the stiffness of St. Helen’s mattress met a branch, which prodded itself into my shoulder and created a sharp pain.”
It goes on to describe a dystopian future where a young woman admits herself to a kind of guinea-pig-experiment; turning herself into a tree at night in order to better oxygenate the planet.
Her work is ambitious but it never fully leaves the intimacy created by full and rich character descriptions.
Near the end of our time together, we talked about her process of character building. She spoke about sitting alone and writing and I asked, “Does that make you anxious or, with writing, does that fall away and not matter for the moment?”
She thought about it for a moment and replied,
“I like writing near people if it’s a story because I do get lost in the story. I can never decide whether I like writing around people more than by myself, though.
I think it has to do with my mood. If I feel overwhelmed, socially, I’ll enjoy being at home, having a cup of tea, and writing by myself. But if I’m feeling lonely or I need inspiration, it’ll help to go out and be near people.
I’ve been writing a story before and I’ve seen someone walk by and been inspired by them, and then I incorporate them into the story in some way. So, maybe it depends on how much inspiration I need at that moment.”
Having read her stories, it’s difficult to see how they could have been inspired by the LA/NY hipsters traipsing around our college, wearing plaid overalls, dark green beanies, or runway stilettos in upstate New York.
Her stories are imaginative, mysterious, and always ambitious.
And it seems that her inspiration wells from a variety of springs.
We were talking about those sources when she said,
“I wrote [a story] about a policewoman who has a two-year-old daughter that she sends to a daycare center. The woman who runs it turns out to be this crazy pedophile, and that was based off some strange cases of mass-hysteria in the 70s, where a bunch of people falsely accused daycare centers of pedophilia. It turned into this huge mass hysteria movement that affected different parts of America. And that was just curiosity — I was researching that one night for fun. So, I have different sources.”
Whether these sources come from a coffee shop or Wikipedia, it’s undeniable that Wedd’s strongest source of influence begins with her family.
“I’ve been told that I write very interesting characters” she said, “and that that’s what I’m best at. I think that’s a symptom of growing up in a family with seven siblings and really interesting parents.
Then there’s my high school, which was another place with eclectic artists and weird thinkers, and here there are all of these intellectuals.
I’ve met so many characters, unconventional ones but, still, I don’t think I’m at capacity in any way. There’s so much more to learn; so many more souls to describe.”
Those characters that Wedd creates have autobiographical strands; threads of histories and genealogies that mesh together to make up a soul. Their personalities and quirks are visible when we go back and look at Beatrice Ann Wedd, the girl who in no way had a conventional childhood.
She grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere: rural New York, specifically — a place where, when people ask where she’s from, she replies, “About fifteen minutes from Hudson.”
She was homeschooled by artistic, hyper-intellectual parents for sixteen years, alongside seven siblings. Her life reads like the novel Pride and Prejudice, in many ways, which is written, coincidentally, by her great, great (etc.) aunt Jane Austen.
Wedd speaks fondly of her childhood, but there’s a hidden darkness in her eyes which I wasn’t able to draw out. Instead, I learned about it after speaking with her friends and family.
“I always felt like I was carrying a baby with the meaning of her name: Beatrice.” Her mother, Alice, told me as we sat together in the kitchen of their family home.
Besides the two of us, the house was empty which, as Alice said, is rare.
“It was a very deep feeling. The name means happy, blessed one. We could be going through anything — the loss of her father, all of these things — and she remained happy. She went through sadness but she remained extremely connected to him, even in the place he was going, and she somehow was happy even during crises. It could be related to her being born in a thunderstorm,” She laughed. “Coming in with a bang! Boom, here’s Beatrice.”
This is an element that carried itself through, all the way from birth to my time interviewing her at the age of 22. Wedd was cheerfully optimistic and she never lingered on topics that would darken our conversation.
If you want to find these thunderstorm-moments, you talk to her family or you read her stories.
One of these stories, You’re Going to Have to Give a Speech, she describes as a “funeral comedy.” I found this accurate. The story is obviously inspired by the death of her father, and it follows the life of a girl as she moves from her father’s funeral to the reception that follows, all while struggling with the idea of giving a speech.
In the end, she does, and the speech is flowery and just a little melodramatic. It dives down into the pits of grief that she must have felt, and these are the pits that she’ll never talk about. As she said, it’s hard to without crying.
‘I might remember that day as the one my heart broke. I’ll tell you about the ways it broke, if you care to listen.’ She paused and wrung her hands together. This was it. She thought. This image has been repeating itself in her mind for a week.
‘Imagine my father leaving his body,’ she began, ‘as he is leaving he grabs onto the edge of my heart with thin fingers. What if he wrapped a string around my heart and tried to pull it with him? It wanted to follow him, it would have gone anywhere with him if it meant he wouldn’t be alone,’ she paused to catch her breath. ‘But of course, it couldn’t — it was wrapped to earth, to mom and my little brother, so the string broke in half and snapped back like a rubber band.
He was my dad. He was a part of me. I am sentient proof that he existed. I am evidence of him.’ She was breathing heavily now, and fully aware of herself.
Her hands were raised before herself like a prophet. She wanted to say something more to this extent, now, but couldn’t find the words. Something floated around in her mind, but she could not capture it. She remembered that feeling: It was descriptive and unique and more painful than is possible to describe.
There is no physical equivalent.
It lies in what philosophers and religious figures dedicate their lives to, but it’s all metaphoric description and expression of thought. There’s nothing we can grab onto. There’s nothing that we can taste, touch, smell or see. It’s frustrating to try to describe that feeling because it’s a slightly bigger grain of sand that gets caught up in the flow of smaller ones. The speed of their momentum pushes it through fingertips before you can describe its shape; its color or its subtleties.
‘That’s all I needed to say.’ She finished, dropping her hands to her sides.
The room was still, like a meadow after a thunderstorm. The birds and insects had run to hide from falling rain.’
This excerpt is important because the death of her father is an enormous part of who Wedd has become.
I couldn’t get her to open up about it as much as she did in that story, but she did admit that her biggest regret in life was, “Not spending as much time with my dad and appreciating him as much as I could have.”
His death shaped her writing, her relationships, and her untold struggle between depression and anxiety.
When I asked her close friends and family to choose which two of the Five Temperaments they thought best characterized Wedd: they all included Melancholy and most included Sanguine. Though the two seem contradictory, it isn’t difficult to see why they picked these traits.
In my time talking to Wedd, I was struck first by her cheerfully open personality and then, later, by the darkening heaviness in her deep green eyes.
I believe it’s this combination that makes for such compelling storytelling, while also opening up the channels for so-called “funeral comedies.”
When Wedd told me about what makes a good storyteller great, my first thought was, “Well that’s obvious!” I’m not sure it is, though, after having thought about it more.
“My first writing teacher made a comment about the whole process of being a writer.” she said, “She was talking about the stereotype of the writer who lives alone in the woods and doesn’t talk to anyone. She said, ‘That doesn’t really work anymore; in contemporary fiction you’re an entertainer and you need to know your audience. You need to know people in order to write about people.’ It’s this idea that you need to write in a way that makes people happy or interested, so you need to know what it is that they like. It’s very simple, but I’ve thought about it ever since she said it.”
She’s right, I think. The people in Beatrice’s life have come and gone. She’s lost friends, her beloved father, and a series of boyfriends and lovers — the latter she describes as “mistakes” — but without these losses and the indescribable pain she tried to work through in You’re Going to Have to Give a Speech, the stories may not have manifested in the same way, or even at all.
And this goes back to my first impression of her, which is that she needs to do things in order to know. It’s this motivation that fuels Wedd’s passion. She’s done so much but she feels, in many ways, like an outsider.
For Wedd, gaining access to people and the ways that they think is paramount to being successful — whether she chooses to pursue teaching, publication, journalism, or even independent writing.
It was strange for me to think of Wedd as an outsider. She’s friendly, quite attractive, and has a witty, though sometimes overly sarcastic, sense of humor. I was interested in learning more about her as a social creature. I asked her about homeschooling and what she thought about it and she seemed uncomfortable, suddenly — nervous even.
She shrugged and said,
“Homeschooling was a big portion of my life. Sixteen years. It was easy for me to transition into school, though. Apparently, I came off as smart and friendly.
I had all of these anxieties before I joined, about fitting in or being smart enough, and I didn’t really know how to be around boys, or what to say when they told me they liked me. I’d had classes before — like ballet, tutoring, obscure stuff; things you’d imagine rich aristocrats to do — and then general studies like math and reading. It was this method called ‘unschooling.’ Do you know anything about it?”
I told her I didn’t but that it seemed like a break from conventional school. She nodded, looking down into her lap.
“Yeah, it’s a break. It’s very different. The idea is that you’re supposed to let your kid decide what they’re interested in.
So you give them a lot of freedom — even more than homeschooling, which is a little structured at least — you give them all this freedom to decide what they want to do and what their curriculum should look like.
So, six of my siblings and I did that. It wasn’t religious. I think it was more that my parents were both smart, creative people and they were worried about public school bullying and over-testing.
For the most part, it worked out okay. Socially, though, I’ve had some challenges.”
I nodded, glad to see her open up. I asked why she hadn’t mentioned being unschooled sooner and she shrugged again,
“It’s something I’ve been insecure about. I don’t really like to talk about it. I never mention I’m unschooled, but I thought I should for the interview because it’s something you’ll need to cover.”
She seemed ashamed and I asked why. She put her chin in her hands and looked out the sideways window.
There were construction men below, shouting across the field about something. She listened to them for a moment, smiling at me shyly, as if we were sharing a joke.
After a moment, she said,
“There’s a lot of bias around homeschooling and I don’t like the questions I’ve gotten when I’ve told people. They’ve been like, ‘Are you Amish or something? Are you really religious?’ So there’s a tendency, I think, to look down on people who were homeschooled as really naive, sheltered or ignorant, and I guess I just don’t feel like that describes me.”
I understood, on the one hand, but I wanted her to see how big a part of her identity it was. It seemed to me that it could work in her favor, if she embraced it; it could make her stand out against the crowd.
But at the end of the day, this was just another thing that she hid. The song “Behind Blue Eyes” came to mind when I was talking to Wedd, although hers were green.
As a child, Wedd was free-spirited. At the same time, though, she switched between being a tomboy to setting up fairy houses to voraciously reading everything she could get her hands on. And that wasn’t difficult for her to do, I realized after visiting her mother, because her family home was absolutely covered in books and artwork. Every room, even the hallway upstairs, had at least two completely full bookshelves and, besides them, piles of books towered and tottered in various spots around the house. It reminded me, at first, of the Weasley home from Harry Potter.
I wondered if this was how Wedd saw her life. She seemed to engage the world and her identity through books, often; a kind of world building through reading, writing, and language.
Books became a way of living in difficult circumstances — of making worlds within worlds, of interpreting her circumstances, and of gaining perspective on life within an otherwise isolated environment.
She talked about how she understood writing socially — perhaps it was a kind of compensatory mechanism for the social alienation of unschooling.
But despite whatever associations she would make, the Wedd family home was cozy. There was a distinct homemade food smell when I walked in; at least three cats sitting around on couches; and photos and drawings hung up on every square inch of the walls.
Wedd’s family home is a large, two-story farmhouse at the dead-end of a street in Philmont, New York. It’s surrounded by fourteen acres of woods and, in spite of all the noise that accompanies eight children — though only three are left at home — plus chickens, dogs, and cats, the place is quite peaceful.
There’s a chicken shed to my left as I drive through the gates, bikes and wheelbarrows sitting around in the overgrown grass, broken mowers and cars, two yellow labradors, and a big rundown barn. The house is only halfway painted, with several renovations that look like they’ve been started but forgotten about (or perhaps the money ran out), and several young girls running around the property.
The house, like the novel, is a perpetual work in progress, but also always in a state of decay. The Da Vinci Syndrome comes to mind and, even before I go inside, I can tell that the house is a sort of abandoned art project. From the outside, it strikes me as a dilapidated version of the Bennet home from Pride and Prejudice, only with fewer farm animals.
I asked Wedd about the animals and she said, frankly,
“They didn’t bring in any money. My mom wanted her kids to grow up on a farm and be in that environment, but they weren’t bringing in any money so we actually only have chickens, dogs, and cats now. We used to have cows, sheep, goats, horses and all those sort of classic farm animals. We also had a vegetable garden and, yeah, it didn’t bring in any money but it sure was fun.” She laughed and shrugged.
To me, it seemed a bit irresponsible of her mother, especially since money issues have been a constant theme in the family, but I held my tongue and smiled.
And money issues is another one of those things that defines Wedd, even without her wanting it to. She and her sister Sophie, who started her own graphic design company after college, have made it their key priority to lead financially independent lives.
Wedd jokes about this, saying,
“My mom taught me what not to do with money, so I suppose I should be grateful for that.”
It’s hard to be around her without seeing that she has a strong work ethic and an ambitious personality.
In a cafe near Bard, I spoke to her boyfriend at the time, Edwin, about what excites her passion.
“She’s very motivated,” he said, “I think that she has, in her mind, a certain amount of success that she needs to achieve and she works very hard and zealously to achieve that. I think that what makes her the most passionate is writing and education, but it’s also achieving those goals that she’s outlined for herself.”
I asked Wedd whether work ethic was important to her and she said, “Yes, it is:
My parents were both artists when I was growing up so there were always issues with money. I’m trying to avoid that struggle in whatever way I can…”
She went on to describe her father and what he did, “He was a carpenter for most of his life; he did some house painting; was a really good writer; and then he also did some portrait artist work as well. He did all sorts of things.”
Interested to learn where the money to support a farm and eight children came from, I asked her more about her father.
“He was an interesting guy in general.” She said, somewhat nonchalantly. “He spent time in India and found a guru named Osho, and he had all these crazy stories about possibly transporting drugs across Russia.” She paused and laughed. “He alluded to that one time. Yeah, so he was very artistic and adventurous but there was never a lot of money.”
I pressed her about where exactly it came from, and she mentioned offhandedly that, “Grandpa’s eighty-four and he still works for Morgan Stanley!” and so I assumed this meant he supported them.
It must have been a difficult childhood for Beatrice and her siblings. She told me about how, recently, someone she knew had been diagnosed with an autism spectrum condition. He’s done some research since then and, together with his therapist, has been able to unofficially diagnose their mother.
“It’s a relief, in some ways,” she said. “For years I wondered what could be wrong with my mother. Why she needed the house to look the way it did, why she never understood how to talk to people: their boundaries or what would make them angry. It’s a relief to know she might have a disorder. It makes me forgive her, somehow.”
Even if she does forgive her mother, there’s noticeable tension between them.
I asked her to describe her mother and she said, “She worked for a famous photographer called Norman Parkinson. She was his assistant in the 70s or 80s I think.”
But besides that, Beatrice never went into their relationship.
She describes her father as a role model, but I think that she’s always been somewhat intimidated by her mother, and it’s easy to see why.
When I met Alison she was wearing two different long skirts, layered on one another, a bellydancing shirt over a long-sleeved beige one, and no shoes. She had cat-eye glasses with gold sparkles on them, and she smiled broadly but didn’t make eye contact. She immediately delved into talking and she didn’t stop until I left. She covered subjects from vaccinations causing Autism, the importance of nutrition and organic foods, and the healing powers of crystals. She’s an eccentric woman which, as one NYT article observes, used to be a way of describing someone with Autism.
Wedd’s father, Patrick, though much more level-headed and sane, was also passive and shy. He suffered from cancer for eight years, before dying surrounded by his family, when Wedd was 19.
Though Wedd seems embarrassed by her family sometimes, she acknowledges how unique they’ve made her: “Being homeschooled with seven siblings on a farm; having a mom who believes in crystal magic and a dad who practiced Indian mysticism with Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh; being almost entirely supported by my grandparents…” she laughs, “yeah, I’d say that all made me pretty unique.”
On top of that, Wedd attended a Waldorf school called Hawthorne Valley from tenth grade to graduation — a place where arts and creativity were paramount — has taken a gap year, has already worked almost fifteen different jobs, and has travelled to Europe to see family several times.
Her life is anything but ordinary, and I asked her if this is what pushes her to create.
Her response was, “Definitely.
For instance, I don’t know what I would’ve done when my father passed away if I hadn’t been able to write about it. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to people because:
A. It’s difficult to describe and,
B. It’s so hard to talk about without crying
But with writing or journals, I didn’t feel the pressure to actually articulate myself and to make sense. I could say whatever I was feeling or thinking, get it out there, and then stop thinking about it for a little while, because it existed in the world.
Writing allowed me to release something that I otherwise wouldn’t have been able to.
So I’m very grateful to writing, in general, because it’s helped me to process so much.”
I asked Wedd to go into what kind of value she thought that writing had and she nodded, tucking her brown hair behind her ear and readjusting her bright blue glasses.
“I think it has an enormous value. It’s certainly evolving, as you said earlier, with how it’s being distributed and produced, and I don’t necessarily like the direction it’s heading in. I don’t hate video production but I don’t like it as much as reading because it feels lazier to consume. It doesn’t give your imagination a job.”
She paused for a moment, waiting for me to disagree. When I didn’t, she continued,
“I follow this guy on YouTube called “Nerdwriter” — I don’t know if you’ve heard of him — he makes videos analyzing different things and he has this one about World Building, specifically in The Lord of the Rings. Anyways, he talks about how when people build things — maps, for instance — for their readers, it doesn’t ask them to use their imagination, or get into the process of imagining a world. Instead, it offers them a world that’s already been made.
I think that videos do the same thing. A lot of money goes into video and film production, now, and I think that’s a shame because I feel like the production of written work has a greater amount of value.
But, even so, I don’t see books going out of business. They’ve been around for forever, and there are so many people that love writing and respect it. I can’t imagine a world in which there aren’t any books. Maybe they’ll evolve into eBooks or something but, still, they’ll be around.”
I found myself lost in the world she was building.
All of a sudden, it was near the end of my time interviewing Wedd.
We were sitting together in the same classroom, with the construction workers yelling outside. Wedd wore a simple green shirt and jeans. Her hair was up in a bun and the most distinctive thing about her appearance were her bright blue glasses.
The sun was shining brightly outside and Wedd looked out as she spoke.
I told her that I agreed with her, “Even if the modes are different in our world, writing will be a constant.”
“Yes, exactly.” She said, “It has been, and will be, a constant for a few different reasons: most people have a lot of thoughts that they need to process and one really great way to do that is to write about it. Not necessarily in a biographical way, but to incorporate feelings about the world, and maybe your family, into a piece of fiction — or nonfiction — and just get it out there.
I think it can be a liberating process and a wonderful way of connecting with the world; suddenly your thoughts and feelings are produced and sold worldwide. I’ll admit, I’m terrified of the idea, and even of blogging. I’ll do so much editing before I send out a post because I’ll be like, ‘Oh my god, what if I use the wrong word and someone gets upset?’ Or, ‘What if this grammar’s incorrect and people are like, ‘She’s a writing major?’’ It’s pretty scary: this idea of opening yourself up, creating a personal work of art, and then what? You have the world tear it apart?
It seems so much freakier than painting, for instance, and maybe that’s because I’m not a painter, but I think there’s something so intimate about putting your words and thoughts down on paper and offering them to the world.
There’s so much hidden power in that action.”
She pushed her glasses further up her nose as the construction workers shouted something about passing a hose.
I smiled and urged her to continue.
“Well, think of the parallels you can draw between WWII and The Lord of the Rings, for instance — all that commentary on race and nations — it’s such a political book. And books have that magic to them. They can make you see threats, but in a gentle way; through metaphor instead of blowing the whistle. Instead, it’s like, ‘Be careful because this could happen.’ They have that power, you know?
Or, another example is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. A novel about reproductive rights in a dystopian world. So, most women are infertile and the ones who aren’t get shuffled into camps and their fertility gets harvested by the political powers.
I read it in the context of the GOP primaries and there were so many similarities. I wanted to throw it at Donald Trump’s face after he said that women should be punished for getting abortions.”
She leaned forward and, for a moment, I saw her differently. She wasn’t a nice bookworm in that moment but an activist—one who truly realized power.
I found it interesting that the two personalities could coexist.
“But anyways, yeah books can have that power.” She continued, leaning back now and playing with the plastic covering of her water bottle.
“It’s interesting, my parents didn’t let us use technology — TV, computers, cell phones, recorded music, anything — until I was 14. I guess what they instilled in me, more than anything, was that I’d have to use my imagination to have fun.
I’d go outside to make fairy houses and have mud fights, or I’d make up a spy game or read. So maybe I’m left with a higher value of imagination than other people, I don’t know. But I do think that, as a kid and a young adult, you really need to use and strengthen your imagination.
I believe that it will serve you later on in life. That’s one reason I think that this idea of world building for a reader, or video, can be lazy, and in a dangerous way. I don’t know how much I’m just rambling now, or whether I’m making sense.”
I laughed and assured her she wasn’t rambling. She was, somewhat, but I found it engaging. Hearing from the perspective of a homeschooled person with very little media influence, I assumed that her imagination must have been pretty strong.
After my time speaking with Wedd, I had the feeling that whatever path she chose she would be alright. She had ambition and passion and, in my experience, those serve you better than a firmly laid-out plan.
I told her so and she laughed and said,
“I sure hope so! But maybe I’ll just marry rich.
It’s funny, you know, I know what I should do in order to earn money but here I am, still walking myself off a cliff.
Then again, whatever, because you have to do what you’re passionate about, right?”
I laughed and told her that I wasn’t the best person to ask. As I packed up the recording device and papers, she looked less lost for a moment. Her crossroads were still there, laid out neatly before her eyes, but perhaps one of the roads had dimmed.
Wedd shook my hand and thanked me.
On my way out, I thought about what it takes to be a writer and to believe that your thoughts have any value whatsoever.
Whether it’s sheer talent or stupid bravery — to me, Wedd seemed like a perfect fit.